


What Hands Can't Touch

by garththefish



Series: What Hands Can't Touch, What Eyes Can't See [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, F/M, Growing Up, How Do I Tag, I Don't Even Know, I Tried, M/M, Mirrors, No Smut, Romantic Soulmates, Skater Victor Nikiforov, Soulmates, Young Victor Nikiforov, aging viktor nikiforov, dancer mila babicheva, danseur christophe giacometti, it will get better i promise, not yet at least, not your traditional soulmate au, reflections au, relfections, young christophe giacometti, young mila babicheva
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-16 10:10:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11250981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/garththefish/pseuds/garththefish
Summary: Viktor Nikiforov is barely 4 years old when his image exchange- also known as soul exchange- begins. This phenomenon occurs between fated lovers. Soulmates.Growing up, he discovers the meaning and mystery behind the existence of soulmates, but will he learn what it truly means to have one?This is my twist on a soulmate au.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just the beginning, so please bear with me on my first fanfiction journey. Also, please be gentle with your comments! I have a fragile ego and I cry easily lol. 
> 
> I'd also like to note that this fic is in 3rd person omniscient, so it switches perspective quite a bit and when it narrates from a child's perspective, that doesn't necessarily mean it will be in a child's vocabulary.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!

He is almost four years old when he notices his left eye change color.  

 

An exhausted Viktor pads into the bathroom that morning wiping the sleep from his eyes, wholly unsuspecting the pivotal transformation his life would take from this day on. With half closed lids, the boy grabs a black hair tie off the doorknob where his momma likes to keep them and secures his long silver tresses at the nape of his neck.

 

Still half-comatose, Viktor somehow manages to snag his toothbrush out of the mug sitting by the sink without knocking it over. His body moves on muscle memory alone while his brain still sifts through the events of last night’s dream and somehow he successfully prepares his toothbrush. The only problem is the action itself.

 

Yawning widely and blinking back small tears forming in the corner of his eyes, he feels slightly more awake than before.

 

He brings the brush up to his teeth, but misses and smears some toothpaste on the corner of his mouth. He licks it up and continues his attempt at brushing, urging his hand to move the way he wants it to.

 

Offhandedly, he glances into the mirror and away.

 

He does a double take. Something was certainly off about his reflection, but his semi-conscious brain can’t quite discern what it is.

 

Nothing wrong with his hair and nothing on his face. So why had he-

 

Viktor’s roaming eyes catch their reflection. His left eye is brown, the once brilliant cerulean blue swallowed up in obscurity.

 

Aggressively, Viktor inhales, prepared to shriek at the top of his voice, but forgot the minty taste on his tongue. He ends up coughing up toothpaste so hard his mother comes to check on him.

 

“Are you alright, мой золото?” Viktoriya asks with a worried crease to her brow.

 

“Momma! Momma, my eye!” Viktor exclaims. “It-it’s brown! Momma, my eye is brown.”

 

A knowing smile plays on her lips. “I don’t see what you mean,” she teases.

 

Viktor gawks at her in stunned silence. How could she not see it? She’s looking him directly in the eyes, surely anyone could see it. He grips her hand and drags her toward the bathroom mirror.

 

“Look!” he points to his mutated eye. “It was blue when I went to sleep and I woke up and now it’s brown. Momma, I’m scared,” Viktor says in a shaky voice, eyes brimming with tears.

 

“There’s no need to cry, мой солнышка. You’re alright.” She puts an arm around her son and ushers him out of the bathroom. “I’m sorry I teased you, Vitya. Let’s eat breakfast and then we can sit down and I’ll explain what's happening,” she promises.

 

Viktor reluctantly obeys. He devours his syrniki as soon as the plate is set in front of him, in his haste to satisfy his burning curiosity.

 

Once breakfast sits warm in their bellies and dishes are cleared, they move to the sunroom and Viktoriya pulls her son onto her lap.

 

“Vitya, what is the date today?” She asks quietly, stroking the child’s silvery blonde hair.

 

Two wide, shining aqua eyes meet hers in confusion. “November… uh…”

 

“Today is November 29th, 1993,” his momma states matter-of-factly. “Your soulmate was born today.”

 

Viktor voices his concerns, “What’s a soulmate? And why is my eye brown?”

 

“Soulmates are beautiful and sacred,” his mother reassures. “There’s no need to be scared of them.” She contemplates how to proceed with her explanation and figures she should start from the beginning. “Our ancestors called them amantes usque in sempiternum. In Latin, that means ‘lovers forever.’ In Russia, we call them Вечный компаньон,” his mother informs.

 

“Ве… чный... компаньон?” Viktor repeats, the words choppy and awkward on his tongue.

 

A giggle escapes Viktoriya’s lips. “Yes. It means ‘eternal companion.’ Whatever you choose to call them- forever lover, soulmate- they were born to love you. To accept every part of you and care for you like nobody else in the world possibly could,” his momma declares as her voice trails off slightly at the end, a wistful look in her eyes.

 

Viktor just watches, knowing his momma is reliving a memory of his papa. He waits for what seems like ages in his four-year-old mind, but he’s patient because he knows how much momma misses him.

 

“Anyway-” the young mother interrupts her own reminiscence. “Soulmates are sacred, моя любовь. No one really knows how the soulmate link came to be, but it’s been around since the start of human existence. Even science can’t explain how it works or what it is, exactly. It’s mystical, almost ethereal spiritual connection between two or more people.”

 

There’s an extended pause as Viktor processes all the information thrown at him. “Ethereal?” He asks.

 

“Meaning it comes from heaven or somewhere magical that we don’t quite understand.” She explains. “The soul link is the reason your eye became brown. When the youngest soulmate in the link is born, the process of image exchange begins.”

 

“That means I’m older than my Вечный компаньон.” Viktor astutely states.

 

“That you are, Vitya. Every year on your soulmate’s birthday, one or more features of your face will be replaced with your companion’s. If you are meant to meet when you’re young, like your papa and me, then each birthday you will see more and more changes until the face is complete. Once you see their whole face and they see yours looking back in the mirror, you are meant to unite,” she affirms, clapping her hands together and intertwining her slim fingers. 

 

“If my birthday’s in December, and theirs is November, then when, uh-”

 

“Image exchange,” his momma supplies.

 

“-is done, I have to wait ‘til after my birthday to meet them?” Viktor asks contemplatively, slowly forming the words to articulate his thoughts. His forlorn expression tugs Viktoriya’s heart strings.

 

“You may not need to wait so long. Maybe you’ll meet them that day. It’s happened before.” The silver haired boy perks up at that. “Some suspect the reason the whole face must form is because you need to recognize each other at first sight.”

 

Although, it can be overwhelming to some. Others take to it like a duck to water. Really it just depends on the person. Some even choose to defy the divine experience and refuse to view their soulmate, averting their sight from reflective objects.

 

In fact, her own sister was one of them. _Viktoriya,_ Zilya pleaded, _you may want this for yourself- this whole soulmate business. But I don’t._ Zilya didn’t believe in the idea of pre-destined love, instead choosing to find and settle down with another woman like herself. What the soul children, upholders of the soul binding call misguideds.

 

_But we’re not misguided, сестра._ Zilya had insisted at the time, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. _You act as if there’s something wrong with me because I want to make my own destiny and choose my own lover. I don’t want a God or deity or destiny pulling the strings of my life like a marionette._

 

Zilya married her lover. Viktoriya has never mentioned this, but they worship each other much the way soulmates do.

 

Breaking away from the past, she looks down at her son and smiles her signature heart shaped smile. The same one she bestowed upon her adorable little boy. _He’s going to be a heartthrob when he grows up like his father,_ she thinks to herself, _I just know it._

 

“Okay, but-” Viktor starts only to be cut off by the grandfather clock chiming in the corner of the room.

 

“It’s time for your ballet lesson, мой золото, and you know how Miss Baranovskaya reacts when her star pupil is late.” Momma says in a gentle, yet urgent tone.

 

With a choked off squeak, Viktor jumps down from her lap and dashes to his room to change into his leotard, black tights, and ballet slippers.

 

_There’s still so much you must learn, but for today this is enough._

 

* * *

 

“That’s enough for today,” Miss Baranovskaya announces clapping her hands together. “Decent work from all of you. Mila, work on your pointe at home, it needs improvement.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“Christophe, you need to work on your footing for positions three and four.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

“And Viktor,” Severe green eyes meet muted blue, “lead your fellow dancers in a cool down stretch.” With a quick nod in Viktor’s direction, the ballet mistress turns gracefully on her heels and walks out of the studio. No doubt going back to her office to reprimand Yaakov for interrupting twice this session.

 

_Eyes like those could command an army_ , his momma once said.

 

Viktor leads his friends to the center of the room and sits down, extending one leg and stretching his fingers to touch his toes. Mila and Christophe follow suit, mimicking the action.

 

“Have you-” he starts only to rethink his question. “Has your image exchange happened yet?”

 

Mila’s head whips up, sending her long crimson curls flying. “Yes! My soulmate is so pretty!” She claims proudly.

 

“How much can you see?” Viktor inquires.

 

Mila stands up and walks over to the large mirror paneled walls. She reaches up and touches her face reverently. “I can see two purple eyes- mother says they’re probably violet. I see black eyelashes and two big, black eyebrows.”

 

“That’s it?” Her eyes lock with Viktor’s through the mirror and she nods.

 

“That’s all I see. I can’t tell if they are a girl or a boy yet.”

 

Christophe pipes up, “They could be neither.”

 

“Or both. My momma says it’s possible to feel like a boy and a girl,” Viktor imparts. He casually switches legs and begins the same stretch, as Christophe mimics the motion.

 

“I don’t care who they are, I’m gonna love them anyway,” Mila declares with incredible intensity. Taking one last long look into the reflection of her eyes, she turns away, rejoining the boys in their group stretch.

 

“Me, too.” A blush crawls its way across Christophe’s face. “I don’t care if my soulmate is a boy or a girl.” The young Swiss looks up to fiercely meet both the dancers’ gazes. “I’m gonna love them no matter what.”

 

The three friends lapse into silence and Viktor is left wondering how far along Christophe’s image exchange actually is, though he doesn’t ask. That’s for another time.

 

The quiet lull was abruptly disrupted by a loud shout, making all three dancers recoil in shock.

 

“Why do Miss Baranovskaya and Mr. Yaakov fight so much? Aren’t they soulmates?” One of them asks.

 

“Even soulmates fight, sometimes,” responds another.

 

“Soulmates aren’t s’pose to argue. They are s’pose to love each other,” the last one says. Right at that moment they hear the door to Lilia’s office slam open, “You are not taking my star pupil away!” the ballet mistress cries.

 

Viktor’s head snaps up at the mention, knowing it’s him they are arguing about. But why? Why would Yaakov want to take Viktor from-

 

His thoughts momentarily lost as Yaakov comes storming in, red faced and clearly exasperated. The angry Russian points one meaty finger at Viktor and says, “You. Come with me. And bring your stuff.”

 

Yaakov’s gruff tone and no-nonsense attitude forces Viktor up and out of his stretch in two seconds flat. Grabbing his red sports duffle bag that’s too big for his body, the Russian youth hurriedly packs his water bottle and flats, and replaces his snow boots. He throws on his hat and gloves, scarf, and winter coat in record time.

 

Where are they going? Why does Yaakov want to take him away from Miss Baranovskaya? He never gets the opportunity to seek answers, because Yaakov is already tugging him by the arm out the door into the harsh Russian winter, Lilia still screeching behind them.

 

“Don’t worry about Lilia,” Yaakov assures. “She’ll get over it.” Viktor’s not so sure about that.

 

“Where’re we going?” Viktor inquires.

 

“To the home rink all my skaters use.” A pause, then, “I want you to become my student.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because I think you have potential.”

 

“What’s potential?”

 

“It means you might be able to do something you haven’t tried yet, you might have a knack for it.”

 

“A knack?”

 

“A talent for something.”

 

“Oh… but why?”

 

An agitated sigh escapes the coach’s chapped lips. _Children,_ he thinks as his eyes roll heavenward. “Because I’ve seen how well you’ve picked up ballet, even at such a young age. That kind of gift can take you anywhere on the ice.”

 

They trudge through snow and ice in silence as Viktor weighs the truth of Yaakov’s words.

 

“Okay,” he simply says with a shrug of his thin shoulders.

 

The duo arrives at the indoor rink with wind at their backs and snow in their socks. They stamp their boots on the runner just inside the rattling doors. Yaakov then heads straight for the front desk, “I need skates to fit a four-year- old.”

 

“These should do it, Mr. Feltsman,” the teenager at the counter sets down a pair of toddler sized blades. “Try them on, ребенок,” the pimply boy directs Viktor.

 

When he finally has his feet in the skates and Yaakov laces them up, they fit perfectly, but in more than one way. The sensation that washes over him is warm, tranquil. A feeling Viktor has never felt during ballet. An understanding. He rises, meets Yaakov’s direct gaze, and says, “Get me there.”

 

Walking on knife shoes isn’t as difficult as he pictured until he gets to the stairs, but it doesn’t slow him down. Dropping onto his bottom, he scoots his way down the steps and stands back up on both feet only when blades connect with level ground. Yaakov ushers him to the rink door.

 

It was cold in the arena, but not unpleasantly so. Only Viktor and Yaakov are there, but the danseur quickly forgets the old man’s presence. All he sees is the expanse of ice in front of him, the dominant thought in his head screaming _GO_!

 

So, he does. After he plants his feet on the ice, he closes his eyes and pulls in a breath of frigid air making his throat a little raw. He takes a few tentative steps forward-

 

-and promptly falls to his knees, kneecaps hitting the ice with a hard _thwack_ , vaulting his trunk forward and forehead coming in close contact with the hard surface. Good thing he left his winter gear on, because gloves kept delicately small hands from a serious ice burn and a puffy winter jacket cushioned his body. An injury before he even _commenced learning_ figure skating would be both detrimental to his health and ironic.

 

His knobby knees would definitely bruise, though.

 

“Are you okay, ребенок?” Yaakov intoned from the rink wall. Nodding yes, he is fortunate enough to right himself and find no serious trauma.

 

_Skating is tough,_ but he unconsciously makes his decision. Fate cast its judgement on Viktor the moment he stepped foot in the building. The ice ensnares him in a way ballet hadn’t been able to.

 

On the ice, he was free. Miss Baranovskaya is strict and ballet has rigid rules and even more demanding criteria. Balancing on the slippery surface, unsure of how to even glide forward, he is unrestricted. He knows absolutely nothing about the basics of figure skating, and yet…  

 

“Coach,” Viktor calls, voice echoing through the empty rink. “I wanna learn.”

 

* * *

 

Luckily, Yaakov breaks the news to Lilia. She doesn’t take it well, going by the absence of the old man’s ever-present fedora and the irritated red lump forming on his brow.

 

Viktor’s momma, on the other hand, is a completely different story.

 

“Wow, Vitya! Mr. Feltsman chose you, specifically?” A nod in response, then, “My baby boy a figure skater? World renowned men’s figure skating champion, Viktor Nikiforov!” She proclaims with gusto, imitating an announcer’s tone. “Whatever you choose, I am here for you, мой солнышка. I always will be.” They hug tightly, Viktoriya stroking the shimmering silver strands he inherited from his late father, along with remarkably blue irises.

 

Every time depression pushes her to onto a new ledge and urges her to jump, to just end it, she looks into the familiar, swirling turquoise and remembers her promise. _Take care of our son, любимая. Never let him go a day without feeling loved. Please, tell him stories of his papa and how much I wish I could be there. I love you, Viktoriya._

 

For years, those words are what sustained her. Every breath, every heartbeat a binding contract of her vow.

 

Breathe in, _take care of our son._ Breathe out, _I love you, Viktoriya._   

 

The first thing you forget is their voice.

 

Reality raises her awareness back to the present to the innocent, yet perceptive gaze of an impressionable youth. This must happen often enough because he simply waits for her to return instead of disturbing her trance as toddlers his age often do.

 

She turns back to the stove, stirring the boiling pasta. “Did Mr. Feltsman say anything else?”

 

“To talk to him about it.” Viktor relays, tugging on her sleeve. “Momma, let me help.”

 

“You can help by setting the table,” and he scampers away to fulfill his task, leaving Viktoriya to her thoughts.

 

Once the table is set, the food is cooked, and the two are seated, they wordlessly enjoy their meal.

 

When plates are thoroughly cleaned and in the drying rack, Viktoriya sits down on the couch and props her bare feet up on the coffee table, the TV off. Viktor takes a seat next to her, “Momma, I wanna skate.”

 

“I’ll call Mr. Feltsman tomorrow and we’ll discuss it.”

 

Satisfied with her answer, Viktor snatches the remote from the coffee table and turns on cartoons. They continue to watch in peace until it’s time for Viktor to get ready for bed.

 

Running through his nightly routine is easy enough, but facing the nearly authentic mirror image disturbs him some. Suddenly waking up and finding out that soulmates exist, and that he has one out there somewhere is almost impossible to believe already. The fact that he’s barely turning four years old and can’t quite grasp the concept or the vocabulary being tossed around doesn’t help either. But the longer he stares into the contrasting dark brown, the more concrete the idea becomes.

 

Moving up onto his tip-toes in front of the bathroom mirror, Viktor observes his new left eye.

 

A fleeting glance would suggest it’s simply a one dimensional, flat brown eye, but upon closer inspection it is so much more than that. Examining it doesn’t soothe the reluctance and doubt dancing around in the back of his mind, but it does help him absorb the situation a little better.

 

It’s an inviting, sincere color that evokes an odd emotion he is unable to identify. The very outside ring of the eye is black and surrounds it in a thin line. Scattered across are lighter browns, creating a layered, three dimensional iris. The richest mahogany deeper down, and the brilliant cinnamon being the most superficial. Encircling the pupil is a starburst of orange.

 

Viktor reaches up and prods his lower lid, pulling it down and tilting his head so his face can catch more light. Three sharp knocks cut off his exploration.

 

His mother instructs him to turn in for the night and there’s a slight pause in which he thinks she’s walked away. However, she says, “We can talk more tomorrow about skating.” Fading footsteps indicate her departure.

 

Swiftly, Viktor brushes his teeth, washes his hands, and exits the bathroom. Waddling down the hall to his room, he tucks himself in under the sheets. He’s asleep in minutes and dreams about nothing.  

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking forever to update! Enjoy!

 

Viktor wakes to his mother, bright eyed and bushy tailed, sitting at the foot of his bed bouncing excitedly. “I called Mr. Feltsman and he said he’ll start private sessions with you right away!” She shrieks, catapulting herself at Viktor, arms outstretched for a hug.

 

“Private sessions?” He parrots back, confused.

 

“Just you and him, and no other students in your class,” his mother clarifies.

 

With large eyes and an even larger smile, Viktor hugs back, arms barely encircling his momma’s back. They pull away at the same time and look at each other with heart shaped grins.

 

“Your first session is next Monday at eight. Vitya, I’m so proud of you.” She receives a questioning side-eye. “What? I am. I knew you didn’t like ballet. Well, not like you hated it, just that you weren’t passionate about it. Now, come on,” she gestures animatedly. “Get dressed, we’re going out to celebrate!” And like that she untucks her legs and jumps off his bed and whirls out of the room.

 

By the time they’ve left their apartment building, the gray light of another dismal, St. Petersburg winter day is illuminating the restaurants and cafes. Their patrons relishing the heated interior. It’s still early morning, so the pair stops in at an American-style breakfast place.

 

The friendly blonde waiter places their orders when ready and when the steaming food comes, Viktor focuses on nothing else. He wolfs down his eggs and hashbrowns in thirty seconds flat and starts in on his toast when Momma clears her throat.

 

“I was thinking after this, we could walk around a little bit. Maybe go to the store and look at toys?” Viktor raises his eyebrows in acknowledgement, mouth full of crispy sourdough toast.

 

Viktoriya pauses to take in the sight of her adorable boy, “I know just the place we should visit after the toy store.”

 

* * *

  

At the store, Viktor gets to pick out two small toys or one big one. He decides on two miniature stuffed poodles, one pink and one purple. Both toys barely ring up as five rubles and Viktoriya knows her little boy did this on purpose. He knows money is tight, that they could barely afford the breakfast they ate this morning. Knows that his momma scrimped and saved to afford his ballet class. Luckily, Yaakov agreed to tutor him for free, otherwise poor Vitya’s dream might never be realized.

 

The two make their way back onto the slick sidewalk, hand in tiny hand. Footsteps thudding against concrete as they made their way steadily down the block, passing businessmen and women, teenagers, and young children just older than Viktor heading to school.

 

Every person on earth has one or more soulmates and it’s remarkable to think about. Even those who are blind and can’t see their lover and those who don’t believe eventually reach their Вечный компаньон.

 

Viktoriya always likened the experience to nirvana. Without love, we are lost in the world, no place we really fit in. We wander, seeking shelter in another’s heart. Once we find love, it’s as if the blindfold covering our eyes and shackles encircling our wrists disappear. Suddenly, there’s a rhyme and reason for human life on mother earth.

 

Receiving affection from a parent or friend is heartwarming, but the awe-inspiring love between soulmates is earth shattering. Finding that quintessential individual is tantamount to carrying the weight of the cosmos on your back, but feeling no pain. Your spirit soars, but your feet never leave the ground.

 

Trust is an important aspect between mates because they each possess the power to uplift and wound. Everybody is special and yet, we are all the same.

 

Love is an invisible force in everyone’s life. It has the ability to dispel anger and hate, to create families and raise children. It rehabilitates the sick and comforts the dying.  

 

Vitya may not understand fully what it entails, but maybe someday his black and white world will be filled with vivid color. She hopes she gets to see that day.

 

In the meantime, her almost four-year-old is tugging on her hand, pointing to a poodle puppy ahead of them walking their way. Viktoriya flags the owner down and Viktor enthusiastically shows him his poodle toys. The grown ups laugh fondly and chat for a bit while Viktor pets the matted fur. Someday, maybe his momma will let him have one.

 

The pup puts its front paws on Viktor’s chest and licks his face earning a series of squealing giggles, the child’s laughter like music to his mother’s ears.

 

Viktor reluctantly relinquishes the poodle back to its owner, “I’m gonna have a poodle!”

 

Taking Viktor’s hand again, she looks both ways down the street and crosses. “When you’re older and you can take care of it, you can have one.”

 

“Okay!” Viktor jovially shouts.

 

Viktoriya leads her son into a brightly lit flower shoppe. It’s a small shoppe on the corner, just down the block from their house. Surprisingly, blue, purple, red, yellow, and a wide array of green hues explode out all around them. In this kind of weather, it seems impossible to grow anything. It’s extremely difficult to grow flowers out of season like this especially when you don’t have the right tools for the job, but somehow these blossoms are the most vibrant he’s ever seen.

 

Aromas Viktor has never smelled before filter through the building and it’s heavenly. A pot of unassuming azure and gold flowers sitting in a corner of partial light draw his attention away from the vivid flowers in the room. Releasing his mother’s fingers, he drifts over to them. Gently, he strokes the soft petals and leaves, noting the fuzzy texture.

 

“Those are called forget-me-nots,” a voice cuts in from over his shoulder. “Often, they are given to our soulmates in the hopes they remember our love and reciprocate it in kind. Your papa used to buy them from me for your momma all the time.” His platinum head swivels around and he locks eyes with the figure kneeling beside him. “I run this nursery. My name is Tuesday, nice to finally meet you, Viktor.”

 

“Vitya,” Momma says, “this is Tuesday Nikolaev. She’s one of my best friends.” Her attention moves to the woman still squatting down beside Viktor. “It’s so good to see you.”

 

“What brings you to my humble flower shoppe? Haven’t seen you since before little Vitya here was born.” Tuesday straightens up and saunters over to his momma, the pair hugging briefly before pulling back and meeting gazes.

 

“Was feeling nostalgic, is all. That, and Vitya is going to be a figure skating champion,” Viktoriya comments nonchalantly.

 

“Really. I say that’s cause for celebration.” Tuesday strolls away, hips swaying slightly, and disappears through a door behind the counter.

 

Tuesday is a character, alright. High cheekbones, full lips, charcoal black eyes, and flawless cocoa skin. A real green thumb. Her personality is just as charming and sophisticated as her looks. A long time ago it was decided that if Tuesday and Viktoriya didn’t already have soulmates, they would definitely have been each others Вечный компаньон.

 

Sometimes, if you’re lucky, the universe gifts you with friend soulmates, as well.

 

She arrives with a tray of three steaming mugs and a plate of biscotti. The women drink coffee and Viktor sips hot chocolate. Tuesday shrugs when Viktoriya shoots her a questioning look. “I keep some snacks and drinks in my office in case I feel like it.”

 

“Viktor,” his momma addresses, “why don’t you walk around and explore a bit while T and I catch up.”

 

By the time Viktor returns to the front counter, he’s investigated every nook and cranny of the store. Miss Tuesday and Momma have moved to an antique, round metal table. The chairs they’re seated in are rusted and the paint is chipped. They are leaning forward across the table towards each other, heads bowed and voices hushed.

 

Once Tuesday spots Viktor from her peripherals, she shifts back in her chair and smoothes her expression, Viktoriya duplicating the action. Both ladies smile down at Viktor, but it never reaches their eyes.

 

“You want more hot chocolate, Vitya?” Tuesday offers, generously, and Viktor nods. “I was just reminiscing with your momma about how your papa would dote on her. He bought her a bouquet of forget-me-nots every day after work,” she gestures to the corner where the inconspicuous blossoms sit as she winds her way back into her office.

 

When she reemerges with another cup billowing steam, she places it down beside Momma’s and continues to speak.

 

“I figured you must have inherited that trait from him, considering you went straight for those particular flowers.”

 

From what momma has told him, papa was handsome and soft spoken, but by no means was he weak. Savva gave everything he had for Viktoriya and did so until the day he passed.

 

The flowers must work because not a day goes by without Momma’s eyes glazing over, longing transparently clear in her starry gaze.  

 

Knowing ash black eyes watch him. There’s an undercurrent of something else lurking just beneath, but she snuffs it out quickly. Kids can be pretty perceptive, and she feels for him, but it isn’t her secret to tell.

 

“Has your momma told you stories about your papa?” Viktor nods. “Has she ever told you about the Pizzeria Incident?”

 

Viktor shakes his head.

 

“Well. We will have to remedy that, now, won’t we?” Tuesday smirks and Viktoriya blushes a deep scarlet red.

 

* * *

 

They trade stories and laughter for a few hours. Viktor learns more about his papa in one day than he has his entire three-and-a-half years of life. Momma vows to tell more stories and memories of his papa and Viktor is eager to listen.

 

The young mother decides it has been a long day and it’s time to leave.

 

“Don’t be strangers,” Tuesday hollers as they walk out the door. “Come by any time!”

 

Viktor waves goodbye and braces himself as he warily enters the cold once again.

 

They waste no time fast walking back home. It’s too chilly for Viktor’s little body to handle and his momma doesn’t want him catching pneumonia. Momma ushers him into a warm bath, while she prepares dinner. Viktor pointedly ignores his reflection, choosing to climb into the hot water and wash up.

 

He isn’t wondering about his soulmate, instead, choosing to focus on what Monday has in store for him. What will Mr. Feltsman teach him first? Will his coach go out onto the ice with him? Questions like these swirl around in his head as he bathes and towels dry.

 

His curiosity will just have to wait.

 

* * *

 

Unfortunately, he does not go out onto the ice with Viktor. One of his advanced students volunteered their time to help train with him.

 

Yaakov first teaches Viktor conviction, then the meaning of the word conviction because he’s only four, after all.

 

“Anything you ever do on the ice has to come from a place of absolute certainty,” Yaakov nods once, sharply, to emphasize his point. “Whatever walls you’ve built, whatever mental blocks you have, you need to break them down. Throw them away, because if you want to succeed in the figure skating world, you have to devote everything to it. You’ll make sacrifices for your career if you want to reach the top. I can guarantee you a gold medal by the time you’re fifteen, but you have to trust me. Will you trust me, Viktor?”

 

Viktor raises his hand. “Mr. Feltsman-”

 

“Stop that. Call me Yaakov or don’t call me anything at all.” Later, he would live to regret this decision.

 

“Yaakov,” Viktor says urgently. “I gotta go to the bathroom.”

 

The coach runs a callused hand over his face, rubbing his closed eyes. “Just. Go.”

 

* * *

 

“I didn’t fall at all, Momma!” Viktor gushes to Viktoriya and she listens intently, brushing the first layer of polish on his nails. “Yaakov also taught me a new word! Conviction.”

 

Viktoriya clicks her tongue, brow furrowed, and looks up at her son. “You shouldn’t be so informal with your coach, мой солнышка. You should address him as Mr. Feltsman.”

 

“He told me to call him Yaakov.”

 

“Oh, well, then it’s okay because he told you to. Just remember to ask before you call someone a name, in case they don’t approve of it.”

 

Viktor agrees because he wouldn’t want to be referred to by an unapproved nickname.

 

“I’m glad he’s teaching you more than just skating, though. It’s good to have a mentor in your life,” Momma says, returning her concentration to his fingernail. “Speaking of teaching, there’s something I need to talk to you about. You’re going to have to attend school soon,” her fingers still the nail polish brush and she meets his eyes once more, oddly serious demeanor.

 

“I want to let you pick your path, Vitya. You can either attend the public school down the road, or you can be home schooled. I don’t expect an answer right now, so sleep on it. Take your time and think it over.”

 

He ponders his options, but ultimately waits, provided he could change his mind.

 

“All done! Well?”

 

His nails are the same steel grey as his momma’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

A little less than a month passes and it’s Viktor’s birthday. He can finally stop saying three-and-a-half every time someone asks his age. It’s a mouthful for kid still developing his speech skills and vocabulary.

 

Momma throws him a surprise party/Christmas celebration the weekend before the holiday. In Russia, it’s uncommon to celebrate a birthday before the actual day, but his momma is different in so many ways.

 

Chris and his parents, Mila and her own mommas, and Tuesday and her soulmate arrive, while Viktoriya takes her son to the park for a little. They pitch in to set up the balloons, streamers, a Christmas tree, and birthday banner. Tuesday barely finishes sticking the last candle in the cake when they hear the lock turn.

 

Shouts of “SURPRISE!” and “Happy birthday, Viktor!” echo off the walls, startling Viktor into awed silence. Then come the waterworks.

 

“Thank you!” Viktor barks out through salty tears of joy, his lips forming a notorious heart shape. He could sense love emanating in the room and that feeling is so amazing it hurts.

 

Tuesday lights the candles and they sing and Viktor blows them out. He wishes for more love.

 

The cake is cut and served. The adults sit at the table and chat over second servings and tea. Mila, Chris, and Viktor play with his new toys.

 

At the end of the party, the children hug goodbye and their parents wish Viktor many more birthdays and good tidings for the new year.

 

Viktor is closing the door when Chris runs back in and hugs him tightly. “I’m sad you left ballet, but now I can be the best.”

 

Viktor embraces back and says, “You are the best. You love ballet and I don’t.” The two pull apart and look at each other. “I didn’t have conviction.”  

 

The corners of Christophe’s mouth twitch upward and like a flash, he bolts out the door one last time.

 

* * *

 

Viktor lays awake on his bed, tucked snugly under the plaid covers, contemplating this soulmate situation.

 

They’re almost a month old today. Maybe their family is celebrating Christmas.

 

He’s still young, so he doesn’t comprehend the idea of soulmates very much or how they work, but Momma gave him her word over breakfast that morning she would explain everything when he gets older.

 

Viktor won’t need to think about soulmates for a long while when he has friends, family, and skating to occupy his time.

 

Can it be Monday already?

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank @alastairebowie on tumblr for beta-ing my chapters and helping edit. Check out her tumblr! She's awesome!
> 
> Again, sorry for the late update. I hope you guys enjoyed chapter 2! Please stick with me on my fanfic adventure!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter jumps ahead a few years. Start of chapter Viktor's 6; middle of the chapter he's turning 7; end of chapter he's 8- just trying to provide some perspective so it doesn't seem so abrupt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all are so wonderful, I'm sorry for making you wait.
> 
> Thank you for your comments last chapter. I love responding to them!
> 
> Again, sorry this was a few days late!!!!

 

 

Yaakov’s indiscernible hollering propagates inside the arena. Viktor is aware of this little nuance and ignores it in lieu of concentrating on the wall he will soon be hurtling towards.

 

Within the last four classes, Yaakov has taught him how to precisely execute a front and back T-stop. In the span of two years, Viktor has mastered proper falling techniques, skating forwards and backwards and their respective crossovers, and one legged skating- amongst other things.

 

The most important aspects of figure skating are the basics, as Yaakov drills into his head at least a hundred times an hour, and to support his career he must first build a sturdy foundation.

 

Last week, he spent the whole hour lesson watching and copying his newest task, but he has yet to undertake the move at full speed.

 

Most of today’s lesson was on how to successfully perform a one foot snowplow stop. This type of stop is utilized more in hockey than figure skating, but Yaakov wants him to know it, regardless.

 

Now, in the last fifteen minutes of class, Viktor will triumphantly accomplish this move, no doubt. Stopping itself isn’t difficult, but doing it gracefully sure is.  

 

Viktor does love a challenge. If anyone can do this, it’s him and he _will_ acquire this ability even if he wears holes in his skates and develops calluses on all ten toes.

 

His long silver braid flies parallel to the ice as he pushes off with a burst of strength. Skates slash the ice in an attempt to increase speed.   

 

He is solid and unyielding, flying down the rink long-ways to gain momentum. The rapidly approaching yellow and white concrete wall is about level with his throat, so colliding with it could be catastrophic.

 

_Walls aren’t meant to keep people out, but to fence you in,_ Viktor repeats Yaakov’s words in his head. _Walls hold people back from freedom. Don’t even think twice about obliterating them._

 

Viktor is nearly upon the wall now and he refuses to let the it intimidate him. Without slowing one bit, he shifts his weight to his non-dominant foot, body turning. Keeping steady, he puts a majority of his weight on the inside edge of the blade.

 

The other leg lightly touches the ice, but manages to unburden some pressure from the main leg. It stabilizes and provides him balance as his body naturally leans away from the point of contact.

 

White hot adrenaline courses through him. He’s tilting too far back and this threatens to send him sprawling, possibly crashing into the concrete. He throws both arms up opposite to of the direction of the turn, praying that does the trick.

 

A tsunami of shaved ice shoots up and over the wall a mere three feet away. Viktor’s arms remain in the air to help with equilibrium, while his main leg springs him back to a normal standing position. As if the last few seconds had never happened; as if he didn’t almost crush his windpipe had he made one misstep.

 

But, he’s done it. It was rough and although it certainly wasn’t the best, he still came out without a scratch or bruise to testify the effort.

 

“That was pretty good for your first real try, but ‘pretty good’ isn’t good enough! Again!” The angry Russian coach instructs in a voice loud enough to ring off the walls of the ice arena.

 

Viktor rolls his eyes, taking up a starting position at the wall closest to him. He could hear Yaakov huff the word “children” in a gruff sigh.

 

The second try goes better than the first, and the third is even better. By the time his momma arrives to walk him home, his limbs are aching. Must’ve done the stop at least a thousand times.

 

Fatigue doesn’t curtail Viktor’s enthusiasm, though, as Viktoriya listens intently as her boy describes in great detail all he learned today.

 

Yaakov moved their morning practices into the evening so Viktor can attend a homeschool arrangement she worked out with the Babichevas and Giacomettis. She loves Viktor with all her being, but she’s finding it more difficult to keep herself awake after a certain time of night. _I must be getting old_ , she muses.

 

Now that the classes are in the evening, it can wear him out a little bit and he’s ready to sleep after some dinner and a shower. Mr. Feltsman also decided that Viktor should take two classes a week, three days apart to give him time to rest and recuperate. One is two hours, the other only an hour.

 

_It’s an important time in his life,_ he had explained over the phone a few months ago. _It’s important to teach them while they’re young, because we may miss his growing period, both physically and mentally, and we may never get another opportunity._ Viktoriya had agreed only after getting the go-ahead from the boy in question.

 

It seems like she sees him only a few times a week. When he’s not in school or skating, they make the most of their time together, an inseparable pair.

 

One of their favorite pastimes is cooking. There’s a picture sitting on the TV stand in the living room depicting Viktoriya in her flannel pajamas, early morning light streaming in glinting off the silver tuft of hair on her baby’s head. She’s holding five-month-old Viktor in one arm as she pours eggs into a pan with her free hand. Savva took that picture.

 

Viktor fetches the ingredients and watches Viktoriya prep and cook their dinner. They sit down at the dining room table and tucked into their meals.

 

“-and then I did it again, but the third time was the best,” Viktor continues after cutting himself off to chew with his mouth closed. Excited or not, Momma won’t let him get away with bad manners.

 

They banter back and forth about what their days consisted of, talking until the food became cold and the antique grandfather clock struck nine.

 

“Okay, моя любовь, time for a shower and bed,” Viktoriya announces. “You have to be rested for school tomorrow. Mrs. Babicheva won’t wait for you if you’re late.”

 

Months pass in a blur of scheduled routines, Mondays and Thursdays are the busiest. Viktoriya drops Viktor off at the Babichevas in the morning for his schooling, picks him up in the afternoon, and then it’s off to the rink at four. These are her loneliest days.

 

The other weekdays, Viktor has class with Christophe and Mila and the remainder of his evenings are spent with Momma.

 

Weekends are Viktoriya’s favorite, because they are usually uninterrupted family time they utilize down the millisecond.

 

“Your soulmate’s birthday is in a few days,” Viktoriya comments one day. “Are you excited?”

 

Viktor looks up from his math homework in confusion. Was it November already? Seems like his last image exchange happened yesterday. Time _does_ fly when you’re having fun.

 

Viktor’s been more concerned with school and skating than he has with his destined one. On the 29th, three years will have come and gone since the image exchange commenced, but it passed so fast it felt like a dream. And next month, he’ll be turning seven.

 

The idea doesn’t frighten him anymore, but he still doesn’t quite understand it. Every time he asks his momma anything regarding Вечный компаньон, she always says _In due time_ , so he stopped asking. He’s as naive and clueless about soulmates as he was at four years old.

 

He knows that image exchange begins when the youngest mate in the soul link is born and that it’s possible to have more than one. He knows it’s different for everyone and the exchange happens at different paces.

 

In his particular case, every year on their birthday, one physical aspect of his face swaps out with one from his soulmate’s. This is also a truth for Viktor’s beloved on _his_ birthday.

 

How many facial features could there possibly be to exchange? Eyes, nose, ears, mouth… That’s it! How long will the universe make him wait?

 

* * *

 

The day of his mate’s birthday arrives and Viktor’s curiosity wins out. While waiting for Momma to pick him up from Mila’s, he inquires how far along his friends are in their exchange.

 

Mila regards Viktor with an unreadable expression. “Why?”

 

She’s a smart girl. Perfect grades on all her homework, tests, and quizzes. At first he thought it was because her mother is their teacher, but one day during a spelling bee, he was proven wrong when she spelled liaison right and even gave the definition. Viktor is intelligent as well, however, he received a B _once_ compared to Mila’s _never_.   

 

She knows Viktor hasn’t asked about the soul exchange since they were, what? Three, almost four? Ballet and school are her life, so her mind is otherwise preoccupied. He can’t expect her to remember his soul companion’s birthday, too.

 

He picks at a loose string on the arm of the couch, diverting his eyes from her expectant gaze. “Today’s their birthday,” he mumbles.

 

“Really?!”  

 

“Yes,” he sighs. Yaakov’s mannerisms must be rubbing off on him.

 

“You didn’t tell us? Why?” Christophe pokes his head out from around Mila’s right shoulder.

 

Guilt washes over him in waves. He should talk about them more and it’s not that he isn’t eager, it’s that he hasn’t the first clue about, well, anything. At least, anything regarding his eternal one.

 

Viktor did notice a pattern, however. The year following his initial exchange- when they turned one- his right eye duplicated the layered brown of his left. The year after that, his left set of eyelashes became short and black. He’d be willing to bet the exchange follows this left-right-left design until it comes to completion.

 

A shrug is his only response, the hand playing with the string drops down to his lap.  

 

Mila must read his mood because she doesn’t push for answers. “She’s got pretty, long black hair and violet eyes,” she responds apprehensively. The suspense is probably killing her. “She has thick, tan lips,” Mila concludes her assessment.

 

A pregnant pause settles around them.

 

“I, uhh-”

 

“You know-”

 

“You can-”

 

The trio begins talking at once, words jumbling together in utter incoherency.

 

All three freeze at the exact same moment, look at one another, and laugh.  

 

“You go first, Chris,” Viktor manages through a series of giggles.

 

“I was gonna say, I don’t have long…” The Swiss boy states without preamble. Trailing off is a mistake causing horrified glances from his friends. “No! I mean,” he declares agonisingly slowly, forming the correct words. “I almost see his whole face.”

 

Their gaping becomes sighs of relief and then glares.

 

“You scared me!”

 

“I had a heart attack!” Viktor wails, hand over his heart. He hears Christophe murmur _drama king_. Well, he’s not wrong.

 

“You know he’s a he?” The Russian boy directs at Chris. “And you know she’s a she?” That one aimed at Mila.

 

There’s another awkward pause while Chris ponders the question. “I knew last year. Face shape’s only thing left,” he says with an air of finality.

 

“Mine’s a hunch,” Mila adds. “What about you?” Very astute, very blue eyes meet his, “What do you see, Vitya?”

 

Viktor opens his mouth, ready to reply right as the doorbell rings. “I’ll tell you later,” he jumps up and sprints for the door, backpack bouncing on his shoulders.

 

Chris will meet his chosen one soon. Within the next year and a half, most likely. Mila is probably only a few years from her fated meeting.

 

Viktor feels a flash of panic. Will things change between them once they connect with their soulmates?

 

No, that would be ridiculous. He stamps out that thought as quickly as it came.

 

They were joined at the hip since they were born. They’re lifelong friends no matter the circumstances, so he shouldn’t worry.

 

* * *

 

As soon as Viktoriya opens the front door, Viktor beelines for the bathroom. He hasn’t looked the whole day and the conversation about soulmates really perturbed him.

 

The last words Mila spoke to him today are still buzzing around in his mind. _What about you? What do you see, Vitya?_

 

Viktor locks the bathroom door and stands in front of the mirror. Virtually in a hypnotic state, his fingers brush against the reflection and he anticipates the heat of skin, forgetting that he’s actually touching cool glass. He’s almost disappointed.

 

Short eyelashes, as black as a moonless night, sit prettily where his long silver ones should be. They may be shorter, but they’re thicker than they were before, a perfect replica of the left set. He leans forward, hand flattening against the glass, and simply stares. He notices they’re also straighter and point downwards.    

 

Extracting his hand from the mirror, he deftly caresses his index finger across them, eyes locked onto their image. What he sees in the reflection and what he feels on his own hand contradict.

 

What he _sees_ are blunt bristles grazed by a child’s finger, forced to curl in an upward direction only to return to their original state once the intrusion passes by.

 

What he _feels_ are delicately soft lashes naturally curved skyward. He can feel how elongated and thin they are. His tactile sense and visual sense are at war inside his brain. He may be a bright kid, but he’s just that: a kid. He’s too inexperienced to name the unfamiliar feeling it gives him, so he merely drags his hand away from his face.

 

Instead, he elects to focus on the image altogether.

 

Charming brown eyes and jet-black lashes are beautiful in their own right, but on him they’re foreign. They create an eye-mask effect; something akin to a raccoon eye. It certainly is… bizarre. However, that’s to be expected when they exist alongside pale skin, hair, and eyebrows.

 

At least, he thinks it's odd considering he knows what he looked like previously.

 

Is it possible to forget one’s own face?

 

* * *

 

“Vitya! Get your head outta the clouds!” Yaakov roars to the middle of the rink where Viktor has been absentmindedly twirling in circles. He’s so furious he’s leaning over the wall, hands gripping for purchase, neck muscles bulging with the effort to wail loud enough. This halts Viktor’s loops, but not his woolgathering. He can feel his already thinning gray hairline receding.  

 

When Viktor starts daydreaming his thoughts wander and it derails his focus and practice.

 

Quieter, yet plenty loud for Viktor to hear, Yaakov tries a different approach. “Listen, I know you’re only eight and you want to be a kid- play outside with friends and be happy and free spirited.” His eyes soften a fraction, “I get it. But you want to be a figure skating legend, correct?” A subtle nod, then, “You’re head and shoulders above any other student I’ve ever had. You’re a skating prodigy, Vitya.”

 

He considers his next words carefully.

 

“But that doesn’t mean you can slack off. Your momma sacrifices her family time with you so you can work towards your dream. Think of her. Think of your future.” Here comes the bomb.

 

“Think of your soulmate.”

 

The old coach hasn’t had The Talk with his student yet, and in actuality he’s trying to avoid it- that’s a conversation a child should have with their parent- but he knows of no one who can ignore the subject of their soulmate.

 

Viktor scrutinizes his coach’s words.

 

Does the soul bond have an unspoken rule that soulmates are intended to live together and share everything? Because if so, he legitimately needs to listen to the old man (that’d be a first) about the direction his future is headed.

 

Eight years old and considering prospective retirement options. What kind of life…?

 

The old man swears he detects a flicker of something behind his pupil’s eyes, but the boy remains uncharacteristically silent.

 

“Well, then,” Yaakov speaks after a minute of wordless staring, “time for the fun stuff.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you forever and always for @alastairebowie on tumblr!
> 
> I tried to make the skating as accurate and realistic as possible, while also considering Viktor would be way ahead in the learning curve compared to the average 6 year old skater. 
> 
> If you're experienced with skating lessons or are a figure skater yourself, PLEASE give me feedback or suggestions. I would be eternally grateful. 
> 
> I look forward to writing chapter 4!!

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to Gayson for encouraging me to take my idea and run with it. Check out their work and subscribe to them! 
> 
> Another shout out to @alastairebowie for editing and providing feedback before I post! Without them, this would all be one giant mess of incoherent writing. Check them out on tumblr!


End file.
